Chapter 3

What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself. As for
Lucy, she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon her. Her
gentleness and piety, under the pressure of so horrible a life, seemed
over-passive to me. She never complained. Mrs. Clarke complained more
than ever. As for me, I was more in love with the real Lucy than ever;
but I shrunk from the false similitude with an intensity proportioned
to my love. I found out by instinct that Mrs. Clarke had occasional
temptations to leave Lucy. The good lady's nerves were shaken, and,
from what she said, I could almost have concluded that the object of
the Double was to drive away from Lucy this last and almost earliest
friend. At times, I could scarcely bear to own it, but I myself felt
inclined to turn recreant; and I would accuse Lucy of being too
patient--too resigned. One after another, she won the little children
of Coldholme. (Mrs. Clarke and she had resolved to stay there, for was
it not as good a place as any other to such as they? and did not all
our faint hopes rest on Bridget--never seen or heard of now, but still
we trusted to come back, or give some token?) So, as I say, one after
another, the little children came about my Lucy, won by her soft tones,
and her gentle smiles, and kind actions. Alas! one after another they
fell away, and shrunk from her path with blanching terror; and we too
surely guessed the reason why. It was the last drop. I could bear it no
longer. I resolved no more to linger around the spot, but to go back to
my uncle, and among the learned divines of the city of London, seek for
some power whereby to annul the curse.

My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials
relating to Lucy's descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and from
Mr. Gisborne. The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he was
again serving in the Austrian army), a letter alternately passionately
self-reproachful and stoically repellent. It was evident that when he
thought of Mary--her short life--how he had wronged her, and of her
violent death, he could hardly find words severe enough for his own
conduct; and from this point of view, the curse that Bridget had laid
upon him and his was regarded by him as a prophetic doom, to the
utterance of which she was moved by a Higher Power, working for the
fulfilment of a deeper vengeance than for the death of the poor dog.
But then, again, when he came to speak of his daughter, the repugnance
which the conduct of the demoniac creature had produced in his mind,
was but ill disguised under a show of profound indifference as to
Lucy's fate. One almost felt as if he would have been as content to put
her out of existence, as he would have been to destroy some disgusting
reptile that had invaded his chamber or his couch.

The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy's; and that was all--was
nothing.

My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our
house in Ormond Street. _I_ was out of health, and felt as if I were in
an inextricable coil of misery. Lucy and I wrote to each other, but
that was little; and we dared not see each other for dread of the
fearful Third, who had more than once taken her place at our meetings.
My uncle had, on the day I speak of, bidden prayers to be put up, on
the ensuing Sabbath, in many a church and meeting-house in London, for
one grievously tormented by an evil spirit. He had faith in prayers--I
had none; I was fast losing faith in all things. So we sat--he trying
to interest me in the old talk of other days, I oppressed by one
thought--when our old servant, Anthony, opened the door, and, without
speaking, showed in a very gentlemanly and prepossessing man, who had
something remarkable about his dress, betraying his profession to be
that of the Roman Catholic priesthood. He glanced at my uncle first,
then at me. It was to me he bowed. 'I did not give my name,' said he,
'because you would hardly have recognised it; unless, sir, when in the
north, you heard of Father Bernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?'

I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I had
utterly forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger to him;
while my ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as much as it
was in his nature to hate anything, placed a chair for the visitor, and
bade Anthony bring glasses and a fresh jug of claret.

Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and
pleasant acknowledgment which belongs to the man of the world. Then he
turned to scan me with his keen glance. After some slight conversation,
entered into on his part, I am certain, with an intention of
discovering on what terms of confidence I stood with my uncle, he
paused, and said gravely:

'I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you
have shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp--one
Bridget Fitzgerald.'

'Bridget Fitzgerald!' exclaimed I. 'In Antwerp? Tell me, sir, all that
you can about her.'

'There is much to be said,' he replied. 'But may I inquire if this
gentleman--if your uncle is acquainted with the particulars of which
you and I stand informed?'

'All that I know, he knows,' said I, eagerly laying my hand on my
uncle's arm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room.

'Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may differ
from me in faith, are yet fully impressed with the fact, that there are
evil powers going about continually to take cognizance of our evil
thoughts; and, if their Master gives them power, to bring them into
overt action. Such is my theory of the nature of that sin, of which I
dare not disbelieve--as some sceptics would have us do--the sin of
witchcraft. Of this deadly sin, you and I are aware Bridget Fitzgerald
has been guilty. Since you saw her last, many prayers have been offered
in our churches, many masses sung, many penances undergone, in order
that, if God and the Holy Saints so willed it, her sin might be blotted
out. But it has not been so willed.'

'Explain to me,' said I, 'who you are, and how you come connected with
Bridget. Why is she at Antwerp? I pray you, sir, tell me more. If I am
impatient, excuse me; I am ill and feverish, and in consequence
bewildered.'

There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voice
with which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, his
acquaintance with Bridget.

'I had known Mr. and Mrs. Starkey during their residence abroad, and so
it fell out naturally that, when I came as chaplain to the Sherburnes
at Stoney Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I became the
confessor of the whole family, isolated as they were from the offices
of the Church, Sherburne being their nearest neighbour who professed
the true faith. Of course, you are aware that facts revealed in
confession are sealed as in the grave; but I learnt enough of Bridget's
character to be convinced that I had to do with no common woman; one
powerful for good as for evil. I believe that I was able to give her
spiritual assistance from time to time, and that she looked upon me as
a servant of that Holy Church, which has such wonderful power of moving
men's hearts, and relieving them of the burden of their sins. I have
known her cross the moors on the wildest nights of storm, to confess
and be absolved; and then she would return, calmed and subdued, to her
daily work about her mistress, no one witting where she had been during
the hours that most passed in sleep upon their beds. After her
daughter's departure--after Mary's mysterious disappearance--I had to
impose many a long penance, in order to wash away the sin of impatient
repining that was fast leading her into the deeper guilt of blasphemy.
She set out on that long journey of which you have possibly heard--that
fruitless journey in search of Mary--and during her absence, my
superiors ordered my return to my former duties at Antwerp, and for
many years I heard no more of Bridget.

'Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening, along
one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer Straet, I
saw a woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the Holy Mother of
Sorrows. Her hood was drawn over her head, so that the shadow caused by
the light of the lamp above fell deep over her face; her hands were
clasped round her knees. It was evident that she was some one in
hopeless trouble, and as such it was my duty to stop and speak. I
naturally addressed her first in Flemish, believing her to be one of
the lower class of inhabitants. She shook her head, but did not look
up. Then I tried French, and she replied in that language, but speaking
it so indifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish,
and consequently spoke to her in my own native tongue. She recognised
my voice; and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before the
blessed shrine, and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much by
her evident desire as by her action, to kneel beside her, she
exclaimed:

'"O Holy Virgin! you will never hearken to me again, but hear him; for
you know him of old, that he does your bidding, and strives to heal
broken hearts. Hear him!"

'She turned to me.

'"She will hear you, if you will only pray. She never hears me: she and
all the saints in Heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the Evil One
carries them off, as he carried that first away. O, Father Bernard,
pray for me!"

'I prayed for one in sore distress, of what nature I could not say; but
the Holy Virgin would know. Bridget held me fast, gasping with
eagerness at the sound of my words. When I had ended, I rose, and,
making the sign of the Cross over her, I was going to bless her in the
name of the Holy Church, when she shrank away like some terrified
creature, and said:

'"I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven."

'"Arise, my daughter," said I, "and come with me." And I led the way
into one of the confessionals of St. Jacques.

'She knelt; I listened. No words came. The evil powers had stricken her
dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she
approached confession.

'She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; and
hitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either so
ignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-English, or
else esteemed her to be one crazed--as, indeed, her wild and excited
manner might easily have led any one to think--that they had neglected
the sole means of loosening her tongue, so that she might confess her
deadly sin, and after due penance, obtain absolution. But I knew
Bridget of old, and felt that she was a penitent sent to me. I went
through those holy offices appointed by our church for the relief of
such a case. I was the more bound to do this, as I found that she had
come to Antwerp for the sole purpose of discovering me, and making
confession to me. Of the nature of that fearful confession I am
forbidden to speak. Much of it you know; possibly all.

'It now remains for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to set
others free from the consequences thereof. No prayer, no masses, will
ever do it, although they may strengthen her with that strength by
which alone acts of deepest love and purest self-devotion may be
performed. Her words of passion, and cries for revenge--her unholy
prayers could never reach the ears of the Holy Saints! Other powers
intercepted them, and wrought so that the curses thrown up to Heaven
have fallen on her own flesh and blood; and so, through her very
strength of love, have bruised and crushed her heart. Henceforward her
former self must be buried,--yea, buried quick, if need be,--but never
more to make sign, or utter cry on earth! She has become a Poor Clare,
in order that, by perpetual penance and constant service of others, she
may at length so act as to obtain final absolution and rest for her
soul. Until then, the innocent must suffer. It is to plead for the
innocent that I come to you; not in the name of the witch, Bridget
Fitzgerald, but of the penitent and servant of all men, the Poor Clare,
Sister Magdalen.'

'Sir,' said I, 'I listen to your request with respect; only I may tell
you it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf of one,
love for whom is part of my very life. If for a time I have absented
myself from her, it is to think and work for her redemption. I, a
member of the English Church--my uncle, a Puritan--pray morning and
night for her by name: the congregations of London, on the next
Sabbath, will pray for one unknown, that she may be set free from the
Powers of Darkness. Moreover, I must tell you, sir, that those evil
ones touch not the great calm of her soul. She lives her own pure and
loving life, unharmed and untainted, though all men fall off from her.
I would I could have her faith!'

My uncle now spoke.

'Nephew,' said he, 'it seems to me that this gentleman, although
professing what I consider an erroneous creed, has touched upon the
right point in exhorting Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby to
wipe out her sin of hate and vengeance. Let us strive after our
fashion, by almsgiving and visiting of the needy and fatherless, to
make our prayers acceptable. Meanwhile, I myself will go down into the
north, and take charge of the maiden. I am too old to be daunted by man
or demon. I will bring her to this house as to a home; and let the
Double come if it will! A company of godly divines shall give it the
meeting, and we will try issue.'

The kindly brave old man! But Father Bernard sat on musing.

'All hate,' said he, 'cannot be quenched in her heart; all Christian
forgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would have
lost its power. You said, I think, that her grandchild was still
tormented?'

'Still tormented!' I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress Clarke's last
letter.

He rose to go. We afterwards heard that the occasion of his coming to
London was a secret political mission on behalf of the Jacobites.
Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man.

Months and months passed away without any change. Lucy entreated my
uncle to leave her where she was,--dreading, as I learnt, lest if she
came, with her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me,
that my love could not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be
doomed. And this she thought from no distrust of the strength of my
affection, but from a kind of pitying sympathy for the terror to the
nerves which she observed that the demoniac visitation caused in all.

I was restless and miserable. I devoted myself to good works; but I
performed them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of
reward and payment, and so the reward was never granted. At length, I
asked my uncle's leave to travel; and I went forth, a wanderer, with no
distincter end than that of many another wanderer--to get away from
myself. A strange impulse led me to Antwerp, in spite of the wars and
commotions then raging in the Low Countries--or rather, perhaps, the
very craving to become interested in something external, led me into
the thick of the struggle then going on with the Austrians. The cities
of Flanders were all full at that time of civil disturbances and
rebellions, only kept down by force, and the presence of an Austrian
garrison in every place.

I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard. He was away
in the country for a day or two. Then I asked my way to the Convent of
Poor Clares; but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see the
dim, pent-up, grey walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in the
lowest part of the town. My landlord told me, that had I been stricken
by some loathsome disease, or in desperate case of any kind, the Poor
Clares would have taken me, and tended me. He spoke of them as an order
of mercy of the strictest kind, dressing scantily in the coarsest
materials, going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of Antwerp
chose to bestow, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs with the
poor and helpless that swarmed all around; receiving no letters or
communication with the outer world; utterly dead to everything but the
alleviation of suffering. He smiled at my inquiring whether I could get
speech of one of them; and told me that they were even forbidden to
speak for the purposes of begging their daily food; while yet they
lived, and fed others upon what was given in charity.

'But,' exclaimed I, 'supposing all men forgot them! Would they quietly
lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?'

'If such were their rule, the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but
their founder appointed a remedy for such extreme case as you suggest.
They have a bell--'tis but a small one, as I have heard, and has yet
never been rung in the memory of man: when the Poor Clares have been
without food for twenty-four hours, they may ring this bell, and then
trust to our good people of Antwerp for rushing to the rescue of the
Poor Clares, who have taken such blessed care of us in all our
straits.'

It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did
not say what I thought. I rather turned the conversation, by asking my
landlord if he knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain Sister
Magdalen.

'Yes,' said he, rather under his breath; 'news will creep out, even
from a convent of Poor Clares. Sister Magdalen is either a great sinner
or a great saint. She does more, as I have heard, than all the other
nuns put together; yet, when last month they would fain have made her
mother-superior, she begged rather that they would place her below all
the rest, and make her the meanest servant of all.'

'You never saw her?' asked I.

'Never,' he replied.

I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in
Antwerp. The political state of things became worse than ever,
increased to its height by the scarcity of food consequent on many
deficient harvests. I saw groups of fierce, squalid men, at every
corner of the street, glaring out with wolfish eyes at my sleek skin
and handsome clothes.

At last Father Bernard returned. We had a long conversation, in which
he told me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy's father, was
serving in one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwerp.
I asked Father Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which he
consented to do. But, a day or two afterwards, he told me that, on
hearing my name, Mr. Gisborne had declined responding to any advances
on my part, saying he had abjured his country, and hated his
countrymen.

Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughter
Lucy. Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making his
acquaintance. Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the
hidden fermentation, for some coming evil, working among the 'blouses'
of Antwerp, and he would fain have had me depart from out the city; but
I rather craved the excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused to
leave.

One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an
Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral.

'That is Mr. Gisborne,' said he, as soon as the gentleman was past.

I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer. He carried
himself in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from
his years, might have had some excuse for a slight stoop. As I looked
at the man, he turned round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face.
Deeply lined, sallow, and scathed was that countenance; scarred by
passion as well as by the fortunes of war. 'Twas but a moment our eyes
met. We each turned round, and went on our separate way.

But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the
thorough appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it,
made but an incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his
countenance. Because he was Lucy's father, I sought instinctively to
meet him everywhere. At last he must have become aware of my
pertinacity, for he gave me a haughty scowl whenever I passed him. In
one of these encounters, however, I chanced to be of some service to
him. He was turning the corner of a street, and came suddenly on one of
the groups of discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken. Some words
were exchanged, when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a slight
but skilful cut drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as
he fancied, though I was too far off to hear the words. They would all
have fallen upon him had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then
well known in Antwerp, of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were
perpetually patrolling the streets, and who came in numbers to the
rescue. I think that neither Mr. Gisborne nor the mutinous group of
plebeians owed me much gratitude for my interference. He had planted
himself against a wall, in a skilful attitude of fence, ready with his
bright glancing rapier to do battle with all the heavy, fierce, unarmed
men, some six or seven in number. But when his own soldiers came up, he
sheathed his sword; and, giving some careless word of command, sent
them away again, and continued his saunter all alone down the street,
the workmen snarling in his rear, and more than half-inclined to fall
on me for my cry for rescue. I cared not if they did, my life seemed so
dreary a burden just then; and, perhaps, it was this daring loitering
among them that prevented their attacking me. Instead, they suffered me
to fall into conversation with them; and I heard some of their
grievances. Sore and heavy to be borne were they, and no wonder the
sufferers were savage and desperate.

The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got
out of me the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it. Another
of the group heard his inquiry, and made answer:

'I know the man. He is one Gisborne, aide-de-camp to the
General-Commandant. I know him well.'

He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and
muttering voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited
their evil blood, and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I
sauntered away and back to my lodgings.

That night Antwerp was in open revolt. The inhabitants rose in
rebellion against their Austrian masters. The Austrians, holding the
gates of the city, remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only,
from time to time, the boom of a great cannon swept sullenly over the
town. But, if they expected the disturbance to die away, and spend
itself in a few hours' fury, they were mistaken. In a day or two, the
rioters held possession of the principal municipal buildings. Then the
Austrians poured forth in bright flaming array, calm and smiling, as
they marched to the posts assigned, as if the fierce mob were no more
to them than the swarms of buzzing summer flies. Their practised
manoeuvres, their well-aimed shot, told with terrible effect; but in
the place of one slain rioter, three sprang up of his blood to avenge
his loss. But a deadly foe, a ghastly ally of the Austrians, was at
work. Food, scarce and dear for months, was now hardly to be obtained
at any price. Desperate efforts were being made to bring provisions
into the city, for the rioters had friends without. Close to the city
port nearest to the Scheldt, a great struggle took place. I was there,
helping the rioters, whose cause I had adopted. We had a savage
encounter with the Austrians. Numbers fell on both sides; I saw them
lie bleeding for a moment; then a volley of smoke obscured them; and
when it cleared away, they were dead--trampled upon or smothered,
pressed down and hidden by the freshly-wounded whom those last guns had
brought low. And then a grey-robed and grey-veiled figure came right
across the flashing guns, and stooped over some one, whose life-blood
was ebbing away; sometimes it was to give him drink from cans which
they carried slung at their sides, sometimes I saw the cross held above
a dying man, and rapid prayers were being uttered, unheard by men in
that hellish din and clangour, but listened to by One above. I saw all
this as in a dream: the reality of that stern time was battle and
carnage. But I knew that these grey figures, their bare feet all wet
with blood, and their faces hidden by their veils, were the Poor
Clares--sent forth now because dire agony was abroad and imminent
danger at hand. Therefore, they left their cloistered shelter, and came
into that thick and evil mêlée.

Close to me--driven past me by the struggle of many fighters--came the
Antwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in an
instant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officer
Gisborne, and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess had
recognised his opponent.

'Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!' he cried, and threw himself upon him
with redoubled fury. He had struck him hard--the Englishman was down;
when out of the smoke came a dark-grey figure, and threw herself right
under the uplifted flashing sword. The burgess's arm stood arrested.
Neither Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the Poor Clares.

'Leave him to me!' said a low stern voice. 'He is mine enemy--mine for
many years.'

Those words were the last I heard. I myself was struck down by a
bullet. I remember nothing more for days. When I came to myself, I was
at the extremity of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit my
strength. My landlord sat watching me. He, too, looked pinched and
shrunken; he had heard of my wounded state, and sought me out. Yes! the
struggle still continued, but the famine was sore; and some, he had
heard, had died for lack of food. The tears stood in his eyes as he
spoke. But soon he shook off his weakness, and his natural cheerfulness
returned. Father Bernard had been to see me--no one else. (Who should,
indeed?) Father Bernard would come back that afternoon--he had
promised. But Father Bernard never came, although I was up and dressed,
and looking eagerly for him.

My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what it
was composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with
every mouthful I seemed to gain strength. The good man sat looking at
my evident enjoyment with a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my
appetite became satisfied, I began to detect a certain wistfulness in
his eyes, as if craving for the food I had so nearly devoured--for,
indeed, at that time I was hardly aware of the extent of the famine.
Suddenly, there was a sound of many rushing feet past our window. My
landlord opened one of the sides of it, the better to learn what was
going on. Then we heard a faint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming shrill
upon clear and distinct from all other sounds. 'Holy Mother!' exclaimed
my landlord, 'the Poor Clares!'

He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my
hands, bidding me follow. Down-stairs he ran, clutching at more food,
as the women of his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a moment
we were in the street, moving along with the great current, all tending
towards the Convent of the Poor Clares. And still, as if piercing our
ears with its inarticulate cry, came the shrill tinkle of the bell. In
that strange crowd were old men trembling and sobbing, as they carried
their little pittance of food; women with the tears running down their
cheeks, who had snatched up what provisions they had in the vessels in
which they stood, so that the burden of these was in many cases much
greater than that which they contained; children, with flushed faces,
grasping tight the morsel of bitten cake or bread, in their eagerness
to carry it safe to the help of the Poor Clares; strong men--yea, both
Anversois and Austrians--pressing onwards with set teeth, and no word
spoken; and over all, and through all, came that sharp tinkle--that cry
for help in extremity.

We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and piteous
faces: they were issuing out of the convent to make way for the
offerings of others. 'Haste, haste!' said they.

'A Poor Clare is dying! A Poor Clare is dead for hunger! God forgive
us, and our city!'

We pressed on. The stream bore us along where it would. We were carried
through refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doors
the conventual name of the occupant was written. Thus it was that I,
with others, was forced into Sister Magdalen's cell. On her couch lay
Gisborne, pale unto death, but not dead. By his side was a cup of
water, and a small morsel of mouldy bread, which he had pushed out of
his reach, and could not move to obtain. Over against his bed were
these words, copied in the English version: 'Therefore, if thine enemy
hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink.'

Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like
some famished wild animal. For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle,
but that one solemn toll, which in all Christian countries tells of the
passing of the spirit out of earthly life into eternity; and again a
murmur gathered and grew, as of many people speaking with awed breath,
'A Poor Clare is dying! a Poor Clare is dead!'

Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried into
the chapel belonging to the Poor Clares. On a bier before the high
altar, lay a woman--lay sister Magdalen--lay Bridget Fitzgerald. By her
side stood Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding the
crucifix on high while he pronounced the solemn absolution of the
Church, as to one who had newly confessed herself of deadly sin. I
pushed on with passionate force, till I stood close to the dying woman,
as she received extreme unction amid the breathless and awed hush of
the multitude around. Her eyes were glazing, her limbs were stiffening;
but when the rite was over and finished, she raised her gaunt figure
slowly up, and her eyes brightened to a strange intensity of joy, as,
with the gesture of her finger and the trance-like gleam of her eye,
she seemed like one who watched the disappearance of some loathed and
fearful creature.

'She is freed from the curse!' said she, as she fell back dead.

* * * * *

Now, of all our party who had first listened to my Lady Ludlow, Mr.
Preston was the only one who had not told us something, either of
information, tradition, history, or legend. We naturally turned to him;
but we did not like asking him directly for his contribution, for he
was a grave, reserved, and silent man.

He understood us, however, and, rousing himself as it were, he said:

'I know you wish me to tell you, in my turn, of something which I have
learnt or heard during my life. I could tell you something of my own
life, and of a life dearer still to my memory; but I have shrunk from
narrating anything so purely personal. Yet, shrink as I will, no other
but those sad recollections will present themselves to my mind. I call
them sad when I think of the end of it all. However I am not going to
moralize. If my dear brother's life and death does not speak for
itself, no words of mine will teach you what may be learnt from it.'

LOIS THE WITCH